What does she think I gather from this information? An impulse to take it down? To start a conversation about "these pictures"? What, apart from stirring uncertainty about my choice, could this message possibly bring into my life? I am honestly so baffled. Am I supposed to debate with her now? To advocate my picture? To say thank you for your feedback, like I'm sampling a hair color and not my face?

Okay this might have sounded a little too mad to be festive, but seriously.

Love.

Rosy Smith

Day 13

So the shoes I bought look lovely and all, especially the overknee-sweater combination I got going on, but I'm kinda already limping with pain and we haven't even made it to my oldest friend's house. But hey, I'm here, the sun is out, the town looks like a made-for-TV British Christmas special and I so absolutely love to finally see my friend again. She takes me to a coffee shop for a jetlag-fighting brownie and extremely expensive macchiato (hi, Pound) and I meet her Asian housemate, who studies linguistics (am I already violating data protection? Oh well) and seemed very sweet. I'm sleeping on a military style futon in my friend's dorm, but having never lived in a dorm myself, even that excites me. As does the town itself - there are so so many different colleges, and they all are built like small separate castles, with a square yard, lots of bricks, old chapels and romantic bridges - oh, and the cutest bridge is the one we have to cross on our way home, which goes right over the Cam (if you ever wondered how that name came to be, it's quite obvious) and is so narrow that you have to watch your step instead of watching the traditional Punting boats in order not to trip in front of a bus. Adorable, really. The Christmas lights are out and we make plans to do all our gift shopping in one go, maximising our luggage limit and credit card bills for good fun.


In the evening, you go sit in the college's own bar (everyone who regularly goes to college is probably yawning by now, but to me, a commuting, fashion-school-where-everything-is-different alumni who had nowhere to go at school but to the basement to enjoy not having phone service and/or food, everything I'll be describing has made an everlasting impression on me), which we did with another girl who's from India and doing economics. She's also really funny, even though I'm not sure she means to be, but whatever. Another guy comes in, gets a drink and asks to sit with us, so I assume he's also part of the group (he wasn't - apparently at other schools, you can dare to sit with strangers without getting stare-daggered) and introduce myself. We end up playing Activity and he compares me to Snow White, which I like to hear. He has curls, though (I've said it before and I'll say it again, can't take those seriously on a man).



Day 14

Receipts everywhere, gifts on the floor, my futon and stuffed into bags, all mixed with my pajamas, hair extensions and clothes I'm changing into for tonight. I got my whole family covered for Christmas, even members I've never met before. My feet are killing me, although I skipped my unnecessarily polished fashion sense and put on some of my friend's sneakers that are two sizes too big for me for the day. We are asked to watch a movie with some people, and then they put on a Netflix show that is way too scary for me so I try to blend that out and think of something warm, such as my new Cambridge sweater that I could not resist getting, even though it is a bit hypocritical of me, because I never had one of my own (see, getting overly excited again).



Day 15

There's supposedly brunch available at some colleges, but since most students are gone for the holidays and there are formal parties going out every day, my friend and I spent the better part of the morning touring the town on the lookout for some English Breakfast (not gonna lie, I like those tomato beans) and then "settling" for authentic Indian food instead. "Settling" is not the right word though - I have no idea what I had but it was amazing. I got no food pictures from this trip by the way 'cause I always dove right in. Then it started pouring and we did the cultural part duty with some museum-hopping (they were all free, which I like since I sometimes really don't get the art and slouch around aimlessly for hours to get my money's worth, searching for a chair to sit on that's not ancient. These ones were more entertaining, though).



Now we're back at the bar, I got a glass of red and have been playfully interrogating one of the guys in the group. He's a nice boy, younger than me and already looking into his Phd, and usually, as he claims, not very talkative. But I am somehow struck by the urge to share my every random thought with him and, in turn, ask him all sorts of inappropriate questions (not that sort, I'm not completely useless in social settings). He doesn't seem to mind too much, though; I think he has taken to the idea to open up to a stranger with purple wine stains on her lips, which are sealed, obviously. My attention shifts now, however, as the guy from the first night has shown up again and is talking to me, leaning in quite closely. He did that before, as well as watching me a bit too intently. At one point he takes my ring to show me some reflecting light, and I am a bit bemused when he slides it back onto my finger (I'm so influenced by romantic comedies, it's a serious condition). He proposes (haha) to show me and my friend a place where they actually serve brunch the next morning, and we agree to go.



Day 16

There's no brunch, and my friend decides to go to the library (everyone but me is shooting for a Phd around here, it seems), but he suggests that brownie serving place and somehow, I am on my way to meet him. Alone. Now I don't know about the cultural differences (British or college related respectively), but in my book that's a bit of a situation. Wish me enough poise to not let this turn awkward.

I think I'm doing fine - I have not brought up anything romance /heartbreak/ textationship related, neither asked inappropriate questions, so that's good so far. We're on safe territory, talking family, careers (well, his), New Year's resolutions. Location changes to a gallery and I still can't tell if he just lacks a sense of personal space or is purposefully getting closer to me. I don't really mind either way - I'm not exactly overcome with desire, but I'm nice and comfortable. We're walking around town and he's got all these anectodes and knows every special corner, showing me a lovely spot near the bridge, and I wonder if he's trying to set a mood. I'm too busy congratulating myself for being so comfortable to notice, anyways. I also forget to watch the clock and we turn up at my friend's house when it's already getting dark (I have shown an alarming sense for poor priorities when it comes to guys), where he joins us for tea. While the others are discussing their uni system, I play with my hair elastic and he absentmindedly pulls it away from me like we're holding a bow between us (as in bow and arrow). He keeps asking what we should do for my last night, but my friend and I are invited to dinner and have to keep it pretty vague. (Though me, with my bad priorities, would totally sneak away from a group thing to see a guy. Too bad I'm too polite to actually suggest that)

Dinner is just lovely, still. We're at a Chinese place and my friend's roomate has chosen all these dishes that look fabulous and I'm non-stop refilling my plate. Good thing I was so busy being comfortable I forgot to eat all day.

Eventually we end up in a common room, where I further bond with the shy guy from before (and spam him with my confusion over the other guy's intentions, to which he only says "well, do you need anything from him?". He's so much more self-actualized than me in some ways, bless his heart). Then the other guy drops by and we share some fruity cider (I wasn't aware that there was alcohol in that until I asked, and that's the good stuff), but since we're all playing a game that does not allow much talking, no scandalous whispering in dark corners happens, and the evening fades out in a somewhat anti-climaxing fashion. Meaning I am wearing a rain-soaked fur coat and my teeth are uncontrollably rattling from the cold when we hug goodbye in breathing distance to my friend.

Day 17 

On my flight back home. Very tired, very sad to be leaving this marvelous place where everyone is nice and chatty to (and maybe even hitting on) you, there's books everywhere (the libraries are so pretty I could cry) and I am completely cut loose from all responsibility while walking that narrow bridge and breathing in the cold December air.

If you've known me for a while, you'll have heard me talking about my love for high heels in all shapes and seizes. And that I do not really care for anything flat at all, because honestly: Heels make my legs longer, my strut sassier, my skirts jumpier. Sometimes I forget how short I actually am in public, because I usually don't step out being my "real" height. Heels substitute my preference for tall boys and compliment my love for dress-coded events. When I was working at a magazine last year, not only did I wear block-heeled boots, I changed into outright stilettos to feel important when I twirled around in my stool to sign the postman's notepad. But I also went on a walk along the beach and had to limp to the doctor's the next day who got very mad at me for doing all of the above.

So, let's note here: For activities that entail more than occasional walks to the kitchen/printer/cafeteria/car to restaurant/cinema/tall boy's apartment (I sure walk a lot, thinking about it), I shall own some flat shoes that do not make me feel emotionally short (that's a phrase I just coined and it should be self-explanatory). On my search today, I found a pair of chelsea style boots with tiny silver studs that fit well and basically go with everything if needed, but also some soft suede overknees just a size down so that they are tight enough around the legs (if there's something I hate more than slouchy jeans it's slouchy boots). In a deep conflict of consciousness, I opted for more fabric for my money and went to pay up front, where something truly marvelous happened: The boots, despite not being marked off anywhere, showed to qualify for a thirty percent discount! Thirty percent! I wisely held my mouth shut about my surprise and, after calculating what I'd save for a minute outside the store, went right back in and bagged myself the chelsea boots as well, also for thirty percent less than originally thought.

What a buy! Now I only have to figure out how to fit all these versions of shoes into my carry-on bag for tomorrow. After just having shrug off my jetlag, I'm headed to Cambridge tomorrow to visit my oldest friend at her dorm. I'm very excited, obviously 'cause I love to see her, but also 'cause I imagine it to be a bit like Hogwarts at Christmas. We'll see how accurate I was, but first I gotta actually pack something to wear (I'm thinking cozy sweaters, flippy skirts and my new acquisitions). Oh, and I won't have my laptop, so Blogmas will resume again on Day 18! Europe, I'm coming for you. Maybe I'll get myself a lil' British accent.

See you on Tuesday (but do check my Twitter, if you miss me too much),

Love,

Rosy Smith

Pictures

Let me begin by telling you a little story. My grandfather passed away when I was five - obviously, that came as a huge surprise to me, having had no concept or consideration of death at that point. All I knew was that he was sick and had to sit in the garden stool while I pranced around in the garden and climbed onto his knees one summer day, and that's when he gave me a camera. A small Canon MP, a non-digital one, of course, since I'm old and in the early 2000s, we still took real photographs. I remember playing photo shoot with my dolls (before I knew how much postal work goes into the real ones). As it goes, I misplaced it in the house somewhere, my parents got a digital one and did not buy any more film and I got a camera phone. But today I found an adorable little packet of Kodak in my Christmas candy bag, and now I relish in fantasies of artsy analog shots of me and my friends that have the same fascinating air of "Being in the sun-squinting, drink-spilling, glitter-powder moment memories" to them.


Ghosts

Currently, I'm sitting on the plane (typing into my phone in astonishingly bad spelling) to Hamburg - For the first time since February! I'm doing something university related with some of the girls and we feel like we're thirteen and on a field trip again, but I'm flying out there on my own and I'm seeing ghosts. That happens to me more frequently recently. No, not dead people or anything like that (please, I can't even watch those movies). But two rows up front across from me, there's a guy who looks a lot like my certain someone. At least from behind. I've been staring at his neck intently and missing the security demonstration, desperately trying to make out some big difference. I know it's not him - I know he is not even in the country right now, much less should he be on his way to Hamburg, and despite all of my darkness he would definitely say hi to me. Oh, this is stupid, because of course I would recognize my certain someone with total certainty. I'm just freaked out by some clean cut dark hair on the back of a slender neck. This guy has a much longer nose, anyways. Maybe I can ask him to show me his profile all through the flight, so I don't have to be so freaked out. Now I'm peering at him with a disgusted expression (not because I'm actually disgusted but because I'm highly irritated and it's too early for composure) from behind the drinks wagon like a crazy, lovesick hawk.

Oh my. See you on the ground.

Hamburg, my love

I'm back! Not in my beloved apartment (I need to check again if the guy who usually lives there is planning to move. But I think he's getting scared of me randomly texting him), but in a very bohemian place in the Schanzenviertel, which is a bit like the trendy bit of Brooklyn of Hamburg, with three of my fashion college girls. We're a perfect set of roomies, cozying up in the living room around a jar of sweets and having supermarket-dinner around the sturdy dark-wood kitchen table, sitting on the creaked floor boards. We have a Bachelor's seminar during the day (sooo many numbers this time - business planning sounded more glamorous than "spreadsheets" in my head, but that was the primarily used term allover) but spent the evenings having pasta at an Italian restaurant where they played opera (always a quality criteria), having strong red and really bad white wine in our neighborhood and finally, wandering around the Christmas market next to the Alster - I'm sure this city is beautiful in summer, but I absolutely adore it all dolled up for Christmas. Take a little look....

 The shrill ringing of the alarm clock at an unholy hour wasn't exactly the most charming start of the day, but I got up eventually and tried to ignore the fact that it was still dark outside (isn't that the worst about early mornings?) and I definitely shouldn't be up already.

Those were the first lines I wrote about my first day at fashion school many, many moons ago (okay so three years and three months, if you gotta know the cold numbers). Those are also very versatile phrases describing pretty much every other morning of my time as a student there. Yesterday night, I met up with my classmates and my journalism professor to eat Christmass-y food and drink wine (not me though, living the car commute life) and to celebrate the fact that we made it - seven semesters of early mornings, close-cut deadlines, hidden online shopping, creative differences and most importantly, so much progress. I am the definition of mixed feelings at the moment. I mean, I've anticipated this for so long - I struggled with doubts for about a year and a half that included lots of crying and craving soup, then stopped crying so much and ate a stupid amount of avocado - went to Hamburg, which was lovely in most ways, and after that it was what felt like two weeks of school, late night texting and boom I can delete InDesign. And oh my goodness, that's awesome. But there's also something mellow (and believe me, no one is more surprised than me), and I think that has mostly to do with a) having been in a comfort zone of moodily stomping the lofty hallways and talking back at the professors for so long and b) being very used to seeing that crazy chaotic bunch of people every single morning. See, we might not always get each others' vision, but at the end of the day, everyone appreciated the others' work and despite all the crisis talks and group therapy (you know), I get teary eyed hugging everyone goodbye. And now.

Enough with the emotionalness and onto my favorite topic to moan about - yes, of course, the ride back home! Hello darkness, my old friend, ain't it so. After a series of unfortunate delays that left some of us stranded at various stations, some en route to their beds after three hours and me kicking my heels on a lonely platform at one am, estimating the cost of a cab all the way out of the city and staring at the other side of the tracks, where two mice hid behind trash bags. Suddenly, they started running at each other until they met at their tiny mice noses and one of them flew straight up into the air, came back down and started chasing the other around the trash. I think my jaw hung open. I was close to throwing dollar bills and making a bet with the guy waiting next to me (we were having a bit of small talk since we were both hella annoyed with the delay of the last train, but small talk with guys I don't find attractive always makes me uncomfortable because I am astonishingly shallow). Right before my phone died, I saw the reassuring headlights coming at me in slow motion, which explained the delay but also seemed like pure cruel mockery at this point, and at around quarter past two (and after coughing my lungs out in the car because I ran to the car park like a haunted animal 'cause every bad crime series I've ever seen jumped into my head at once) I finally fell into bed. Only to set a painfully early alarm for a dentist visit at eight.

You know what, I'll think I'll take a nap.

Love,

Rosy Smith